Post by markflynn on Feb 25, 2023 20:36:53 GMT -5
OOC: Continued from adambarker1981.proboards.com/thread/15881/elvises-elvii-tag-team-rp
A low groaning… A pained moaning. The sounds of someone slowly regaining consciousness.
“Oh, good. You’re awake.”
…A rattle. A panicked jerk! A chair leg slamming against the floor fruitlessly.
Suddenly, FLASH!
A blinding lamp light RADIATES.
“See, it… it feels like we got off on the wrong foot…”
The light fizzes like an angry hornet’s nest…
“Let’s… uh… let’s get to know each other a little better, shall we?”
In the darkness, metal scraaaaaaaaaaaaaapes jaggedly, like nails on a chalkboard.
Slowly, at the distant edges of the light, a shadowy figure drags a… chair.
He takes a seat, juuuuuust out of view.
“My name is…” The figure chuckles. “Well, actually, I think we can safely assume *you* know *my* name.”
“See, you… and those cowards you were with that left you behind… attacked ME… Unprovoked.”
The shape snorts.
“And that tells me… well, a few things.”
“It tells me… You and your little buddies were sent by somebody… And you probably had a good idea of the name of the man you were coming after… Maybe you even had a little picture so you could attach a name to a face, right? How close am I?”
…
……
“Aw, you’re not feeling… loquacious? Well, maaaaaaaaybe you had a name. And just maaaaaybe you had a face.”
The shape rests both elbows on the table… Drawing just a hair closer…
“But, maybe you don’t *really* know… who the FUCK I AM!!!”
SLAM! The metal chair clatters against the floor.
A flinch! A grunt betraying fear…
Gleaming in the darkness, the interrogator’s smile gleams, like the razor sharp teeth of an apex predator.
“See, I am NOT someone you want to make angry…”
“And, friend? You and your friends coming after me in that Denny’s? Pissed me right the F-“
Fwip! Suddenly, the light switch flips.
“Okay, gang, I brought saaaaaaaandwiches!” A sing-songs voice calls out, backing into the room…
Pat Bilko, Vegas-based wrestling journalist, turns around with a bag from ‘Double Hull Subs’…
…And sees Mark Flynn, holding a lamp menacingly at the face…
Of a bound-and-gagged Elvis impersonator.
…Flynn slowly turns his head, irritated my.
“What are you doing?”
“What am I doing? What are YOU doing? I leave for five minutes for food and you turn my office into a torture chamber?!?”
Indeed, with the lights on, the space is less of an interrogation room, and more of a cozy workspace… With everything shoved to the sides, to make room for an imposing metal table and two chairs.
Flynn scratches his head. “I mean, I had to work on short notice. Frankly, if you’re unimpressed by what I’ve done? I blame you.”
“Me?!?”
“I searched your desk for thumb screws and bamboo to SHOVE under his fingernails… but it looks like you’re out…”
The Elvis rattles up-and-down in his bindings, desperate and terrified! Flynn cackles.
“Fortunately, I’m pretty good with my hands… Specifically at breaking bones!”
The Elvis is preparing to be Returned to His Sender (whatever god he believes in)… When Bilko clears her throat.
“Uh, Flynn. Could we take a quick sidebar?”
…Flynn grunts grumpily… But skulks over towards the entrance.
Bilko ducks to eye-level with the faux Elvis, smiling.
“We’ll be right back! Don’t move a muscle!”
…Wordlessly, the Elvis holds up his bound hands, reminding her that he is, in fact, incapable of moving…
Bilko blushes. “Er… I mean… just, sit tight!” She drops one of the sandwiches in front of the Elvis… then dashed off.
The Elvis stares at the sandwich on the table…
Before letting out a sigh, muffled by the large sock in his mouth.
***
Bilko carefully closes the office door, behind she and Flynn. Flynn glowers angrily.
“Whaddya want?” Flynn sneers. “Make it fast, I’m about to make that Elvis sing…”
“First off, he can’t *sing* with his mouth gagged.”
Flynn grins insidiously. “That’s intentional. If he thinks I’m too crazy to notice I gagge dhim, he’ll beg to tell me everything…”
Bilko shakes her head. “Flynn, we can’t torture a guy *just* because he ambushed us…”
“IN A DENNY’S.” Flynn snaps. “Which is the closest thing I have to a place of WORSHIP.”
“…Be that as it may. We have to be tactful…”
Flynn scoffs. “Tactful… Two cops tried to murder us in a car crusher and you want me to treat this guy with kid gloves?”
“Look. There are a lot of power players in Vegas wrestling. Clearly, we pissed off one of them enough to stomp us out. BUT, if we go into every encounter looking to bust skulls first and ask questions later, that list of people that want us dead is only going to grow.”
“Then, I’ll cross those names off the list too…”
“Flynn, I’m telling you. If we wanna figure out who’s trying to murder us, we’re going to have to make a few friends…”
Bilko pats her chest. “Trust me, I’m a journalist. Most people are just begging to tell their stories… AND’LL do so without you having to violate the Geneva Conventions…”
Flynn eyes Bilko with suspicion. Bilko reaches into her lunch sack, retrieving a foot-long sub.
“Look, just enjoy a sandwich and watch me work…”
…
Bilko shakes the sandwich at Flynn, invitingly.
…Flynn sighs…
And snatches the sandwich out of Bilko’s hand.
***
Snatch!
“HrK! *cough cough*... have mercy, lil’ mama…” The Elvis mutters as saliva drips down his cheek…
Flynn, with a note of revulsion in his face, tosses the sock he just yanked out of the Elvis’ mouth on the floor.
Choosing a space at the table the two, Bilko scoots a chair in and puts on her biggest smile.
“Heeeeeey! What’s your name… friend?”
Huuuuuuuuuuck Ptoooooooie! The Elvis spits (a mixture of blood and saliva) on the floor.
“Darlin’...” The Elvis wheezes weakly. “You ain’t getting a thing outta me… You’re the devil in disguise…”
Flynn cracks his knuckles and gives the Elvis an evil eye… Before Bilko smacks him on the arm.
Bilko clears her throat… and shoves the sub sandwich an inch closer…
“It’s been a few hours since you and your buddies were at the Denny’s. You seemed a little…” Pat strokes her chin and looks up… Trying to find the perfect word to fit their condition…
“SLOSHED. HAMMERED. BLITZED.” Flynn cuts in.
“Inebriated!” Pat hisses… Before smiling again. “Was what I meant… And that probably means now you might be hung over…”
…The Elvis lifts his bound hands to rub his temples… Betraying a pain in his skull.
“I got the perfect sandwich for your… vibe. Peanut butter and banana Double-Hull Sub. The ultimate hangover cure!”
…The Elvis glances down, trying to play it cool.
“...Mama, did you say… double-hull…?”
Pat unwraps a bit of paper around her sandwich and smiles….
“I did. Yours is special order. I got me and Flynn two veggies since he’s…” Fingerquotes. “healthy…”
…Elvis’ eyebrow twitches.
…But, he visibly starts salivating.
Flynn lifts the sandwich to his face, splitting the bread, eyeing its cucumber and onion contents suspiciously.
“...What IS a… Double-Hull sub?”
Pat takes a bite of her own sandwich, moaning with culinary delight.
“Ohhhh, it’s the very best, Flynn… It’s a hoagie… Toasted… And then wrapped in a SECOND larger hoagie… Which is TOASTED again.”
Flynn almost has a full-on disgust seizure.
“JESUS…” Flynn’s brow scrunches, angrily, waving the sandwich at Pat… “You know how many poisonous carbohydrates must be in this fucking DEATH SUB?”
…Despite Flynn’s protest… The Elvis is licking his lips, his face now inches away from the sandwich. He snorts, taking a big ol’ whiff.
“Sure would be easier to eat that sandwich if you didn’t have your hands bound, huh?” Pat tempts…
Pat nods at Flynn, who seems second-hand nauseous just imagining someone eating a double-hull sub… “If you promise to behave… And answer a few questions…”
…
Elvis tries to speak, but his mouth is already flooded with saliva, preparing to eat.
…Eventually, he meekly nods.
***
“Ohh…” Elvis rubs his belly with one hand, as the arm of his white jumpsuit brushes the crumbs off the corners of his mouth. “Mama, I can’t help falling in love… with that double-hull…”
Elvis sighs, satisfied.
“...Okay, mama… You had questions? It’s now or never…”
Pat smiles, then elbows Flynn.
…Who doesn’t react.
“Flynn?”
…Flynn slowly blinks, coming back online.
“...Sorry, I just… uh… my brain shut-off defensively when I was going to see a man eating 4400 calories in one sitting.”
Pat whispers. “Get it together.”
Flynn clears his throat, nodding.
“So.” Flynn side-eyes Bilko.
Bilko mouths at him. Tactful.
“...Uh… Sorry we had to… Beat the SHIIIIIIT out of you stupid-looking assholes.”
…Flynn surreptitiously delivers a thumbs-up under the table at Pat.
…Pat scrunches her brow, like… Wait, he thought that was tactful?
Thankfully, Elvis is still in a great mood, licking traces of peanut butter off his fingers.
“That’s All Right, Daddy… Should have known it wouldn’t be easy…”
Pat leans in, curiously. “What wouldn’t be easy?”
“Well, with a bounty that size on HIS head…” The Elvis shrugs, nodding toward Flynn. “Baby, what do you want me to do? Turn it down? Imagine all the karate lessons I could buy…”
…Flynn’s eyes widen.
“The COPS put a bounty on my head?!?”
…Elvis squints, perplexed.
“The boys in blue’re after you? Y’all headed towards a jailhouse rock?”
Flynn scoffs, angrily.
“Don’t play dumb!”
Pat elbows him.
“...Friend…?” Flynn clears his throat, actually sweating from not being able to say whatever cruel thing comes to his mind... “The cops tried to kill us. You attacked us while we were hiding out at the Denny’s. Ipso-facto, the cops must’ve sent you.”
It’s Elvis’ turn to scoff.
“Please, daddy. I may love Blue Hawaii, but that don’t mean I like the Boys in Blue…”
Pat coughs, drawing attention towards her. “Sooo, if the police didn’t send you… Who did?”
Elvis puts up his index finger and with his other hand, fishes into his back pocket.
He slides his phone across the table.
On the screen, there’s a picture…
Pat and Flynn peer down at it.
Flynn squints, confounded.
“What the Hell is the Vegas Wrestling Alliance?”
…
Flynn peers up.
Pat’s face is pure white.
“Fella…” Elvis chuckles.
“You’re in Trouble...”
***
Flynn is standing behind a podium, a microphone in front of him. Like a politician making a speech.
“My strength is UNRIVALED.” Flynn smashes fist against the podium.
“My ASCENDANCE is UNSTOPPABLE.”
“MY ULTIMATE VICTORY IS ASSURED.”
Flynn beats his chest, working himself into a frenzy.
“Ask yourself… Who is on the biggest HOT STREAK in the WGWF right now?”
“Who is on the FAST-TRACK to the TOP OF THE FUCKING COMPANY?!?”
“And the answer is obviously, MARK FUCKING FLYNN.”
…
“Now. I’ll admit…”
Flynn scratches his neck awkwardly…
“Did I have the start I wanted in WGWF? Did everything go exactly how I imagined it would when I signed my contract with WGWF?”
…Flynn chuckles. “No. Not even close.”
“I started competing at the top of the card, at the Main Event of the first ever Brawl… And I came within a fraction of a FRACTION of a second… of beating the current World Champ, Peter Vaughn…”
…Flynn sucks air.
“But I came up short.”
…
“Then! I got all the way to the FINAL THREE of the West Coast Rumble with the WGWF World Title on-the-line, before that FUCKING CHEATING HACK, Tristan Slater got his cheating ass involved and ILLEGALLY pulled me outside the ring. Something that he COULD NOT DO in the match.”
…
“I could make all the excuses in the world. BUT, the end result was the same… Mark Flynn couldn’t seal the deal.”
Flynn weaves his hand behind his head… He squeezes his fists so hard that his knuckles crack.
“It was frustrating. It was goddamn MADDENING. Because I knew what I have known since Day FUCKING ONE.”
“That I am the GREATEST.”
“WRESTLER.”
“IN.”
“THE.”
“WORLD.”
…
“But, in WGWF… Given the opportunity to succeed at the highest level…”
Flynn exhales.
“I’d come up… juuuuuust short.”
“Close but no cigar.”
“Talented. Skilled. And yet, somehow…”
“Lacking.” Flynn spits that word bitterly, like bile from his throat…
…
“And after the West Coast Rumble…? After I failed in the Main Event…?”
“I *could* have folded up shop.”
“I COULD have decided to retreat to the companies where I had already succeeded at the highest level.”
“I could have accepted that, yes, I was a World Champion in other companies… But being THE MAN in WGWF… Climbing the Mountain Top that is the WGWF World Title would stay… just out of my reach…”
…Flynn shakes his head.
“But. I PUSHED FORWARD.”
“I knew. I fuckin’ KNEEEEEW. That the fact I was getting push-back, that my QUEST faced RESISTANCE… meant that this was the place I NEEDED to be. To keep growing. To keep digging deeper into my potential. To ELEVATE MY GAME TO THE HIGHEST LEVEL I’M CAPABLE OF.”
Flynn smashes his fist into the podium so hard that the wood chips… He stuffs a finger towards the camera.
“You can’t call yourself the KING of the WORLD, if you never leave your own backyard. And if you never leave the castle you rule over… you never learn the tricks they teach at the next kingdom over.”
“I REFUSE to accept being second-best.”
“So… I doubled my efforts. I re-tooled my game. I kept pushing myself further. I kept innovating new offensive patterns in the ring. And above all… I KEPT FIGHTING.”
“And what’s happened since then?” Flynn grinned, “I’ll tell ya.”
“I went to WGWF Dark to wrestle the first non-squash on the brand. And for one night, I made the B-Show the A-LIST. SAGA’s latest signee, Buster Gloves and I LIT THE RINGRUST CAFE UP. And I walked out with the win.”
“In a one-sided SLAUGHTER at Page’s big declaration of war on the world, I WRECKED Slater’s goon, John Cable. And I made the crucial moves that SECURED CCPE’s vistory against THE ENTIRE WRESTLING WORLD.”
“I went onto to the MAIN EVENT at XWF SnowJob and I took my victory back from Vaughnie. I defended my Universal Title against a man who had beaten me twice, just a few short months prior. And I DEVASTATED HIM FROM OPENING BELL TO CLOSING BELL.”
“And at WrestleWars, I clear out the last obstacle in my path to SKYROCKETING to the top of the WGWF… That cowardly interloper, Tristan Slater…”
“I’ll have him trapped in a steel cage. He won’t be able to run around the arena, begging security and the Las Vegas PD to pull Mark Flynn off of him.”
“There will be NOWHERE to run.”
“NOWHERE to hide.”
“My fucking ASCENDANCE is ASSURED.”
…
”Meanwhile, as I keep evolving and improving…”
“You want to see two people who try the same thing week-in and week-out?”
“STAGNANT.”
“THE LIVING DEAD.”
“Look no further than Sam Voxx and Samuel Chatman.”
Flynn yanks from behind the podium a stack of papers, which he lifts to his face.
“Sam Voxx! A woman with a wrestling record of <a href="https://docs.google.com/document/d/1xZzSybSeCOc9uoPDcn6PoV4cIWKykjISu40rYBlPg34/edit?usp=sharing">ONE WIN… SIX LOSSES</a>.”
“A winning percentage of 14.2857%.”
“Sam Voxx has gotten beaten so many times, somewhere along the line, she got the X beaten off her last name…”
“Literally her ONLY win in the WGWF was against Ace Sky.”
Flynn purses his lips thoughtfully…
“Still, a win is a win, right?”
…After a beat, Flynn shakes his head.
“Wrong.”
“This is the weirdest fucking win I’ve ever seen.”
“Ace Sky versus Sam Voxx was a first-blood match. That ended in a submission with NO BLOOD.”
“Ol’ Sauce Boss and Cherry Cola tried to explain it away on Dark that the stipulation was changed juuuuuust before the match…”
“But, the graphic on the screen said First Blood match.”
“The announce team didn’t say ANYTHING about a stip change before the match…”
“So, what happened?”
Flynn grins a crooked grin…
“I have a theory… Somebody fucked up. And instead of reversing the result, they made it up to Ace Sky by offering him a World Title shot the next week. A shot he had zero chance of succeeding at… but a chance that would shut him up from claiming ‘SCREWJOB’.”
“Sam Voxx beat the only WGWF roster member less talented than her. And she needed SHENANIGANS and BULLSHIT to get the job done.”
…
“And Samuel Chatman, the former member of the US Army Reserves…”
“He’s been a WGWF employee for almost two months!”
…Flynn sneers.
“And he hasn’t picked up a SINGLE win.”
“His record is <a href="https://docs.google.com/document/d/1FJFjKozIQ0wGXEV59HYPnMuWFfwKKfHNt0eoAsrnQCI/edit">0 wins, 0 losses, 2 no-contests</a>.”
Flynn shakes his head.
“You know what that tells me? That Chatman can’t get the job done in the ring.”
“His little headgames with Damage are cute, but they don’t lead to VICTORY.”
Flynn points down the barrel of the camera.
“Should I respect Chatman more because he served our country?”
Flynn scratches his chin…
Then delivers a thumbs-down.
“Nah. I prefer soldiers who actually win.”
Flynn sticks an index in the air.
“BUT, I should clarify I support the troops.”
…Flynn grins a wicked smile.
“By keeping their wives… entertained... while they’re serving overseas…”
Flynn cackles.
“Don’t worry, though, Sammy. You’ll have plenty of time to play with your sweet little daughter, Whitney…”
“...When you’re laying in bed, with a neck brace, wondering if you’ll ever be in physical condition to compete again…”
…Flynn rips the microphone toward his face.
“This is my moment.”
“THIS IS MY TIME.”
“Remember this day, as the day I DECLARED WAR ON THE WRESTLING WORLD.”
“This fight with Sam Voxx and Samuel Chatman will be a day, remembered in INFAMY…”
“As the day Mark…”
“FUCKING.”
“Flynn.”
“Took his first step toward GODHOOD.”
KERAAAACK! The metal cabling snaps!
Flynn tears the mic off the podium.
And drops it on the ground.
A low groaning… A pained moaning. The sounds of someone slowly regaining consciousness.
“Oh, good. You’re awake.”
…A rattle. A panicked jerk! A chair leg slamming against the floor fruitlessly.
Suddenly, FLASH!
A blinding lamp light RADIATES.
“See, it… it feels like we got off on the wrong foot…”
The light fizzes like an angry hornet’s nest…
“Let’s… uh… let’s get to know each other a little better, shall we?”
In the darkness, metal scraaaaaaaaaaaaaapes jaggedly, like nails on a chalkboard.
Slowly, at the distant edges of the light, a shadowy figure drags a… chair.
He takes a seat, juuuuuust out of view.
“My name is…” The figure chuckles. “Well, actually, I think we can safely assume *you* know *my* name.”
“See, you… and those cowards you were with that left you behind… attacked ME… Unprovoked.”
The shape snorts.
“And that tells me… well, a few things.”
“It tells me… You and your little buddies were sent by somebody… And you probably had a good idea of the name of the man you were coming after… Maybe you even had a little picture so you could attach a name to a face, right? How close am I?”
…
……
“Aw, you’re not feeling… loquacious? Well, maaaaaaaaybe you had a name. And just maaaaaybe you had a face.”
The shape rests both elbows on the table… Drawing just a hair closer…
“But, maybe you don’t *really* know… who the FUCK I AM!!!”
SLAM! The metal chair clatters against the floor.
A flinch! A grunt betraying fear…
Gleaming in the darkness, the interrogator’s smile gleams, like the razor sharp teeth of an apex predator.
“See, I am NOT someone you want to make angry…”
“And, friend? You and your friends coming after me in that Denny’s? Pissed me right the F-“
Fwip! Suddenly, the light switch flips.
“Okay, gang, I brought saaaaaaaandwiches!” A sing-songs voice calls out, backing into the room…
Pat Bilko, Vegas-based wrestling journalist, turns around with a bag from ‘Double Hull Subs’…
…And sees Mark Flynn, holding a lamp menacingly at the face…
Of a bound-and-gagged Elvis impersonator.
…Flynn slowly turns his head, irritated my.
“What are you doing?”
“What am I doing? What are YOU doing? I leave for five minutes for food and you turn my office into a torture chamber?!?”
Indeed, with the lights on, the space is less of an interrogation room, and more of a cozy workspace… With everything shoved to the sides, to make room for an imposing metal table and two chairs.
Flynn scratches his head. “I mean, I had to work on short notice. Frankly, if you’re unimpressed by what I’ve done? I blame you.”
“Me?!?”
“I searched your desk for thumb screws and bamboo to SHOVE under his fingernails… but it looks like you’re out…”
The Elvis rattles up-and-down in his bindings, desperate and terrified! Flynn cackles.
“Fortunately, I’m pretty good with my hands… Specifically at breaking bones!”
The Elvis is preparing to be Returned to His Sender (whatever god he believes in)… When Bilko clears her throat.
“Uh, Flynn. Could we take a quick sidebar?”
…Flynn grunts grumpily… But skulks over towards the entrance.
Bilko ducks to eye-level with the faux Elvis, smiling.
“We’ll be right back! Don’t move a muscle!”
…Wordlessly, the Elvis holds up his bound hands, reminding her that he is, in fact, incapable of moving…
Bilko blushes. “Er… I mean… just, sit tight!” She drops one of the sandwiches in front of the Elvis… then dashed off.
The Elvis stares at the sandwich on the table…
Before letting out a sigh, muffled by the large sock in his mouth.
***
Bilko carefully closes the office door, behind she and Flynn. Flynn glowers angrily.
“Whaddya want?” Flynn sneers. “Make it fast, I’m about to make that Elvis sing…”
“First off, he can’t *sing* with his mouth gagged.”
Flynn grins insidiously. “That’s intentional. If he thinks I’m too crazy to notice I gagge dhim, he’ll beg to tell me everything…”
Bilko shakes her head. “Flynn, we can’t torture a guy *just* because he ambushed us…”
“IN A DENNY’S.” Flynn snaps. “Which is the closest thing I have to a place of WORSHIP.”
“…Be that as it may. We have to be tactful…”
Flynn scoffs. “Tactful… Two cops tried to murder us in a car crusher and you want me to treat this guy with kid gloves?”
“Look. There are a lot of power players in Vegas wrestling. Clearly, we pissed off one of them enough to stomp us out. BUT, if we go into every encounter looking to bust skulls first and ask questions later, that list of people that want us dead is only going to grow.”
“Then, I’ll cross those names off the list too…”
“Flynn, I’m telling you. If we wanna figure out who’s trying to murder us, we’re going to have to make a few friends…”
Bilko pats her chest. “Trust me, I’m a journalist. Most people are just begging to tell their stories… AND’LL do so without you having to violate the Geneva Conventions…”
Flynn eyes Bilko with suspicion. Bilko reaches into her lunch sack, retrieving a foot-long sub.
“Look, just enjoy a sandwich and watch me work…”
…
Bilko shakes the sandwich at Flynn, invitingly.
…Flynn sighs…
And snatches the sandwich out of Bilko’s hand.
***
Snatch!
“HrK! *cough cough*... have mercy, lil’ mama…” The Elvis mutters as saliva drips down his cheek…
Flynn, with a note of revulsion in his face, tosses the sock he just yanked out of the Elvis’ mouth on the floor.
Choosing a space at the table the two, Bilko scoots a chair in and puts on her biggest smile.
“Heeeeeey! What’s your name… friend?”
Huuuuuuuuuuck Ptoooooooie! The Elvis spits (a mixture of blood and saliva) on the floor.
“Darlin’...” The Elvis wheezes weakly. “You ain’t getting a thing outta me… You’re the devil in disguise…”
Flynn cracks his knuckles and gives the Elvis an evil eye… Before Bilko smacks him on the arm.
Bilko clears her throat… and shoves the sub sandwich an inch closer…
“It’s been a few hours since you and your buddies were at the Denny’s. You seemed a little…” Pat strokes her chin and looks up… Trying to find the perfect word to fit their condition…
“SLOSHED. HAMMERED. BLITZED.” Flynn cuts in.
“Inebriated!” Pat hisses… Before smiling again. “Was what I meant… And that probably means now you might be hung over…”
…The Elvis lifts his bound hands to rub his temples… Betraying a pain in his skull.
“I got the perfect sandwich for your… vibe. Peanut butter and banana Double-Hull Sub. The ultimate hangover cure!”
…The Elvis glances down, trying to play it cool.
“...Mama, did you say… double-hull…?”
Pat unwraps a bit of paper around her sandwich and smiles….
“I did. Yours is special order. I got me and Flynn two veggies since he’s…” Fingerquotes. “healthy…”
…Elvis’ eyebrow twitches.
…But, he visibly starts salivating.
Flynn lifts the sandwich to his face, splitting the bread, eyeing its cucumber and onion contents suspiciously.
“...What IS a… Double-Hull sub?”
Pat takes a bite of her own sandwich, moaning with culinary delight.
“Ohhhh, it’s the very best, Flynn… It’s a hoagie… Toasted… And then wrapped in a SECOND larger hoagie… Which is TOASTED again.”
Flynn almost has a full-on disgust seizure.
“JESUS…” Flynn’s brow scrunches, angrily, waving the sandwich at Pat… “You know how many poisonous carbohydrates must be in this fucking DEATH SUB?”
…Despite Flynn’s protest… The Elvis is licking his lips, his face now inches away from the sandwich. He snorts, taking a big ol’ whiff.
“Sure would be easier to eat that sandwich if you didn’t have your hands bound, huh?” Pat tempts…
Pat nods at Flynn, who seems second-hand nauseous just imagining someone eating a double-hull sub… “If you promise to behave… And answer a few questions…”
…
Elvis tries to speak, but his mouth is already flooded with saliva, preparing to eat.
…Eventually, he meekly nods.
***
“Ohh…” Elvis rubs his belly with one hand, as the arm of his white jumpsuit brushes the crumbs off the corners of his mouth. “Mama, I can’t help falling in love… with that double-hull…”
Elvis sighs, satisfied.
“...Okay, mama… You had questions? It’s now or never…”
Pat smiles, then elbows Flynn.
…Who doesn’t react.
“Flynn?”
…Flynn slowly blinks, coming back online.
“...Sorry, I just… uh… my brain shut-off defensively when I was going to see a man eating 4400 calories in one sitting.”
Pat whispers. “Get it together.”
Flynn clears his throat, nodding.
“So.” Flynn side-eyes Bilko.
Bilko mouths at him. Tactful.
“...Uh… Sorry we had to… Beat the SHIIIIIIT out of you stupid-looking assholes.”
…Flynn surreptitiously delivers a thumbs-up under the table at Pat.
…Pat scrunches her brow, like… Wait, he thought that was tactful?
Thankfully, Elvis is still in a great mood, licking traces of peanut butter off his fingers.
“That’s All Right, Daddy… Should have known it wouldn’t be easy…”
Pat leans in, curiously. “What wouldn’t be easy?”
“Well, with a bounty that size on HIS head…” The Elvis shrugs, nodding toward Flynn. “Baby, what do you want me to do? Turn it down? Imagine all the karate lessons I could buy…”
…Flynn’s eyes widen.
“The COPS put a bounty on my head?!?”
…Elvis squints, perplexed.
“The boys in blue’re after you? Y’all headed towards a jailhouse rock?”
Flynn scoffs, angrily.
“Don’t play dumb!”
Pat elbows him.
“...Friend…?” Flynn clears his throat, actually sweating from not being able to say whatever cruel thing comes to his mind... “The cops tried to kill us. You attacked us while we were hiding out at the Denny’s. Ipso-facto, the cops must’ve sent you.”
It’s Elvis’ turn to scoff.
“Please, daddy. I may love Blue Hawaii, but that don’t mean I like the Boys in Blue…”
Pat coughs, drawing attention towards her. “Sooo, if the police didn’t send you… Who did?”
Elvis puts up his index finger and with his other hand, fishes into his back pocket.
He slides his phone across the table.
On the screen, there’s a picture…
Pat and Flynn peer down at it.
Flynn squints, confounded.
“What the Hell is the Vegas Wrestling Alliance?”
…
Flynn peers up.
Pat’s face is pure white.
“Fella…” Elvis chuckles.
“You’re in Trouble...”
***
Flynn is standing behind a podium, a microphone in front of him. Like a politician making a speech.
“My strength is UNRIVALED.” Flynn smashes fist against the podium.
“My ASCENDANCE is UNSTOPPABLE.”
“MY ULTIMATE VICTORY IS ASSURED.”
Flynn beats his chest, working himself into a frenzy.
“Ask yourself… Who is on the biggest HOT STREAK in the WGWF right now?”
“Who is on the FAST-TRACK to the TOP OF THE FUCKING COMPANY?!?”
“And the answer is obviously, MARK FUCKING FLYNN.”
…
“Now. I’ll admit…”
Flynn scratches his neck awkwardly…
“Did I have the start I wanted in WGWF? Did everything go exactly how I imagined it would when I signed my contract with WGWF?”
…Flynn chuckles. “No. Not even close.”
“I started competing at the top of the card, at the Main Event of the first ever Brawl… And I came within a fraction of a FRACTION of a second… of beating the current World Champ, Peter Vaughn…”
…Flynn sucks air.
“But I came up short.”
…
“Then! I got all the way to the FINAL THREE of the West Coast Rumble with the WGWF World Title on-the-line, before that FUCKING CHEATING HACK, Tristan Slater got his cheating ass involved and ILLEGALLY pulled me outside the ring. Something that he COULD NOT DO in the match.”
…
“I could make all the excuses in the world. BUT, the end result was the same… Mark Flynn couldn’t seal the deal.”
Flynn weaves his hand behind his head… He squeezes his fists so hard that his knuckles crack.
“It was frustrating. It was goddamn MADDENING. Because I knew what I have known since Day FUCKING ONE.”
“That I am the GREATEST.”
“WRESTLER.”
“IN.”
“THE.”
“WORLD.”
…
“But, in WGWF… Given the opportunity to succeed at the highest level…”
Flynn exhales.
“I’d come up… juuuuuust short.”
“Close but no cigar.”
“Talented. Skilled. And yet, somehow…”
“Lacking.” Flynn spits that word bitterly, like bile from his throat…
…
“And after the West Coast Rumble…? After I failed in the Main Event…?”
“I *could* have folded up shop.”
“I COULD have decided to retreat to the companies where I had already succeeded at the highest level.”
“I could have accepted that, yes, I was a World Champion in other companies… But being THE MAN in WGWF… Climbing the Mountain Top that is the WGWF World Title would stay… just out of my reach…”
…Flynn shakes his head.
“But. I PUSHED FORWARD.”
“I knew. I fuckin’ KNEEEEEW. That the fact I was getting push-back, that my QUEST faced RESISTANCE… meant that this was the place I NEEDED to be. To keep growing. To keep digging deeper into my potential. To ELEVATE MY GAME TO THE HIGHEST LEVEL I’M CAPABLE OF.”
Flynn smashes his fist into the podium so hard that the wood chips… He stuffs a finger towards the camera.
“You can’t call yourself the KING of the WORLD, if you never leave your own backyard. And if you never leave the castle you rule over… you never learn the tricks they teach at the next kingdom over.”
“I REFUSE to accept being second-best.”
“So… I doubled my efforts. I re-tooled my game. I kept pushing myself further. I kept innovating new offensive patterns in the ring. And above all… I KEPT FIGHTING.”
“And what’s happened since then?” Flynn grinned, “I’ll tell ya.”
“I went to WGWF Dark to wrestle the first non-squash on the brand. And for one night, I made the B-Show the A-LIST. SAGA’s latest signee, Buster Gloves and I LIT THE RINGRUST CAFE UP. And I walked out with the win.”
“In a one-sided SLAUGHTER at Page’s big declaration of war on the world, I WRECKED Slater’s goon, John Cable. And I made the crucial moves that SECURED CCPE’s vistory against THE ENTIRE WRESTLING WORLD.”
“I went onto to the MAIN EVENT at XWF SnowJob and I took my victory back from Vaughnie. I defended my Universal Title against a man who had beaten me twice, just a few short months prior. And I DEVASTATED HIM FROM OPENING BELL TO CLOSING BELL.”
“And at WrestleWars, I clear out the last obstacle in my path to SKYROCKETING to the top of the WGWF… That cowardly interloper, Tristan Slater…”
“I’ll have him trapped in a steel cage. He won’t be able to run around the arena, begging security and the Las Vegas PD to pull Mark Flynn off of him.”
“There will be NOWHERE to run.”
“NOWHERE to hide.”
“My fucking ASCENDANCE is ASSURED.”
…
”Meanwhile, as I keep evolving and improving…”
“You want to see two people who try the same thing week-in and week-out?”
“STAGNANT.”
“THE LIVING DEAD.”
“Look no further than Sam Voxx and Samuel Chatman.”
Flynn yanks from behind the podium a stack of papers, which he lifts to his face.
“Sam Voxx! A woman with a wrestling record of <a href="https://docs.google.com/document/d/1xZzSybSeCOc9uoPDcn6PoV4cIWKykjISu40rYBlPg34/edit?usp=sharing">ONE WIN… SIX LOSSES</a>.”
“A winning percentage of 14.2857%.”
“Sam Voxx has gotten beaten so many times, somewhere along the line, she got the X beaten off her last name…”
“Literally her ONLY win in the WGWF was against Ace Sky.”
Flynn purses his lips thoughtfully…
“Still, a win is a win, right?”
…After a beat, Flynn shakes his head.
“Wrong.”
“This is the weirdest fucking win I’ve ever seen.”
“Ace Sky versus Sam Voxx was a first-blood match. That ended in a submission with NO BLOOD.”
“Ol’ Sauce Boss and Cherry Cola tried to explain it away on Dark that the stipulation was changed juuuuuust before the match…”
“But, the graphic on the screen said First Blood match.”
“The announce team didn’t say ANYTHING about a stip change before the match…”
“So, what happened?”
Flynn grins a crooked grin…
“I have a theory… Somebody fucked up. And instead of reversing the result, they made it up to Ace Sky by offering him a World Title shot the next week. A shot he had zero chance of succeeding at… but a chance that would shut him up from claiming ‘SCREWJOB’.”
“Sam Voxx beat the only WGWF roster member less talented than her. And she needed SHENANIGANS and BULLSHIT to get the job done.”
…
“And Samuel Chatman, the former member of the US Army Reserves…”
“He’s been a WGWF employee for almost two months!”
…Flynn sneers.
“And he hasn’t picked up a SINGLE win.”
“His record is <a href="https://docs.google.com/document/d/1FJFjKozIQ0wGXEV59HYPnMuWFfwKKfHNt0eoAsrnQCI/edit">0 wins, 0 losses, 2 no-contests</a>.”
Flynn shakes his head.
“You know what that tells me? That Chatman can’t get the job done in the ring.”
“His little headgames with Damage are cute, but they don’t lead to VICTORY.”
Flynn points down the barrel of the camera.
“Should I respect Chatman more because he served our country?”
Flynn scratches his chin…
Then delivers a thumbs-down.
“Nah. I prefer soldiers who actually win.”
Flynn sticks an index in the air.
“BUT, I should clarify I support the troops.”
…Flynn grins a wicked smile.
“By keeping their wives… entertained... while they’re serving overseas…”
Flynn cackles.
“Don’t worry, though, Sammy. You’ll have plenty of time to play with your sweet little daughter, Whitney…”
“...When you’re laying in bed, with a neck brace, wondering if you’ll ever be in physical condition to compete again…”
…Flynn rips the microphone toward his face.
“This is my moment.”
“THIS IS MY TIME.”
“Remember this day, as the day I DECLARED WAR ON THE WRESTLING WORLD.”
“This fight with Sam Voxx and Samuel Chatman will be a day, remembered in INFAMY…”
“As the day Mark…”
“FUCKING.”
“Flynn.”
“Took his first step toward GODHOOD.”
KERAAAACK! The metal cabling snaps!
Flynn tears the mic off the podium.
And drops it on the ground.